


next time will be better, i guess

by thesaddestboner



Series: Author's Favorites [16]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Non-Famous Family Members As Characters, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, bildungsroman, happy for now, heavy handed metaphors, ian kinsler suburban gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9276311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: They’re a wounded animal that just won’t stay down, that doesn’t have the good sense to just die.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blastellanos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/gifts).



> This is for [**blastellanos**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/profile), who’s read parts of this on twitter and in email.
> 
> Title from "Happy Alone," by Saintseneca. Picking a title is hard.
> 
> Fanmix #1 [here](http://nullrefer.com?https://open.spotify.com/user/saddestboner/playlist/2XoKnTk6g6dGdEEYUbBrky) and fanmix #2 is [here](http://nullrefer.com/?https://open.spotify.com/user/saddestboner/playlist/4KG98srS2iVg7LPfTE4vt5), lolz.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

The first mistake Ian makes is buying a massive home in Birmingham, in a posh gated subdivision full of hedge fund managers, bankers, businessmen, white-collar corporate types. Like Ian’s gonna be here long enough to really get to enjoy the wrought iron gates, in-ground swimming pool, private tennis court, or panoramic view of the lake. Like Tess and the kids are gonna be joining him here to actually make buying the house worthwhile.

Well, Ian’s always been good at deluding himself. Why stop now just because the scenery’s changed? Just because it’s Tess and the kids and not—not— 

Better to leave that thought unexamined. Best to just leave that thought unturned, like a stone in the garden of this monstrosity he’s gonna be calling home for the next six months or so.

Ignoring what he doesn’t want to see. Another thing Ian’s always been good at. 

***

Ian’s not really sure what possessed him to buy the house anyway. It’s actually kind of ugly, and way too big. Totally impractical. Not to mention, he, Tess, and the kids have put down roots in Dallas, and they have a place in Tucson too. Ian had even floated out the idea of getting a condo in Columbia, near the Mizzou campus, just for the hell of it. It’d make it easier to attend Tigers games, and Ian still has some friends in the area.

“We don’t need a condo in Columbia,” Tess had said with a weary sigh. 

Ian had pumped a couple quarters into a dinged-up payphone outside the apartment he was renting out in Lakeland for spring training just to propose the idea. He’d gotten the impression from her overly patient tone that Tess wasn’t interested.

Tess sounded like an exasperated parent whose child had just slapped paint-covered hands all over her immaculate white walls. Only Ian knew, for the purposes of this metaphor, it was Ian who was the unruly child making Tess’s life difficult and not their _actual children_. Their actual children were probably better behaved, in all honesty.

“Okay,” he’d conceded the point, sighing, trying his best to sound pouty and put-upon. Tess never responded to his attempts at guilt-tripping though. “No condo in Columbia.”

Ian glanced at his watch. It was long past the kids’ bedtimes. He usually called just as Tess put them down for the night. Tonight he was late.

“Tell the kids I love ’em,” he said.

Tess sighed. It sounded like the whistle a tea kettle makes when the water’s reached the boiling point. “I will.”

“Love you,” Ian said. He sounded embarrassingly raw. His cheeks burned even though there was nobody there to witness his shame.

She sighed again. “Goodbye, Ian.”

Tess had hung up before he got the chance to echo the sentiment.

***

The place in Birmingham is big. Way too much space for just one man. It’s miles and miles of granite and marble and limestone, and it sounds like a tomb. Even the littlest of noises echoes off the vaulted walls, ricocheting like bullets. Or a wild pitch off the backstop to score a run.

Tess and the kids aren’t coming up for a visit until late summer, after school and summer camp and piano lessons. And, even then, they’ll only be with him for a week or so before Tess whisks the kids back to Dallas. Then it’s back to school, ballet lessons, soccer lessons, karate lessons, a bunch of stuff Ian hasn’t been around for. 

The other day, Tess snail-mailed him a photo of the karate award ceremony Ian hadn’t been able to attend. He felt guilty about it—still feels guilty about it—and seeing the picture didn’t do anything to loosen the knot in his chest.

His little girl was trussed up in a starched, too-large white karate outfit and she had a silver medal hanging around her neck on a red ribbon. Ian had to bite back the urge to snark at Tess, ask why it wasn’t a gold medal before reminding himself he wasn’t his dad. 

Ian tapes the picture up in his locker.

“Is that Rian?”

Ian knows it’s Salty before he turns around. He’d know that voice anywhere. He’d know that voice with his eyes closed. _Especially_ with his eyes closed.

Salty is standing way too close, peering over Ian’s shoulder at the picture of Rian. When Ian turns, he just narrowly misses bumping his face into Salty’s. Salty steps back, looking guilty, thick eyebrows knitting over gentle brown cow-eyes. 

“Yeah. Medaled in her first try,” Ian brags, stepping back until he butts up against the wall.

“That’s great!” Salty says, and he sounds genuinely proud and pleased, as if Rian is _his_ daughter. Ian bristles at the thought. “I bet you and Tess are real proud of her.”

Ian feels inexplicably stung at the mention of Tess, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he nods, crosses his arms over his chest, and puts a smile on his face.

“We are. Real proud,” he echoes.

“When’re they comin’ up?” Salty asks, reaching out, putting a hand on Ian’s elbow. “I bet Ashley and Tess would love to catch up, and I reckon the kids haven’t seen each other since they were in diapers.”

Ian gently shakes Salty’s big dumb hand off his elbow. “Not until later,” he admits, feeling shamed. He wills his cheeks not to flush in embarrassment. “Tess isn’t gonna pull them out of school just to come see Daddy for a week. No point to it.”

“Aw,” Salty says. He actually sounds disappointed. “That’s a bummer.” Salty turns, angling his body toward the exit, before pausing and turning back around to Ian. Ian’s heart gives a stupid little stutter that he gamely ignores. “Maybe you and me could hang out. Like old times.”

Salty’s big dumb moony cow-eyes actually light up, like a hopeful kid the night before Christmas. _Like old times._

 _Like old times._ He says it so casually. If Ian weren’t Ian—if Salty weren’t Salty—it’d be way too easy to just chalk it up as casual chit-chat. But Ian is Ian and Salty is Salty, so there’s something more there, something lying just below the surface. 

Ian reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, fingers searching for phantom curls to twist and knot. He hasn’t worn his hair long in years. Not since Texas.

“I—I guess that could be fun. The new place is pretty empty without anybody else but me in it,” Ian says, dropping his hand, twisting his fingers in the bottom of his sweat-damp UnderArmor.

He should walk away. He should say no. But Salty grins like that’s the best thing he’s ever heard and Ian can’t bring himself to turn him away. It’s always been easier to blame it on Salty.

“Sounds good to me. Tonight? After the game?” Salty asks.

 _Are you sure that’s such a good idea, you and me, alone_ , Ian doesn’t say.

“Sure,” is what Ian actually says.

“Maybe we can carpool too,” Salty adds, grinning at him unguardedly.

Ian feels weak-kneed, like a child again in the face of Salty’s bright sunshine of a smile. “Sounds like a great idea.” 

***

That’s the second mistake. The big one. The one he wishes he could have a mulligan for. The one he wishes he could take back.

It’s too easy to tell himself it’s nothing. It doesn’t mean anything, inviting Salty back to the new place. Just two old friends catching up.

He knows it’s a lie and, he thinks, deep down inside, Salty must know it too.

Ian finds Salty out by the players’ exit, a leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He’s fiddling with his iPhone, a crease furrowing in his brow as he fires off a text. Ian approaches him. He doesn’t think Salty can even hear him.

“Hey.” Ian nudges Salty gently in the shoulder and he looks up, leaning away from the door.

“Ready to go?” Salty grins at him again, brilliant and blinding, and pockets his phone. He reaches out, cupping Ian’s elbow gently, and Ian flinches back without really thinking about it. The thin line appears between Salty’s eyebrows again.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I’m ready. Let’s go,” Ian says, waving him off. “My car or yours?”

“Brought my truck,” Salty says with a shrug.

“You schlepped that old hunk of junk all the way from…from wherever the hell it is you live?” Ian asks, laughing incredulously, hand poised over the door handle. Salty’s had that crappy old pickup since their Texas days. It must be nearly ten years old now, he thinks.

Salty tosses his head back and lets out a deep belly-laugh, like Ian’s actually that funny and he’s not just humoring him. “That’s my girl, Kins. I’m attached to her, what can I say?”

“Let’s take my car,” Ian says.

Ian opens the door and steps into the humid summer night. Immediately he reaches up and tugs at the collar of his shirt. He can see bugs flitting and swarming around the streelights that illuminate the parking lot.

Salty follows Ian to his car, hovering too close, close enough that Ian can practically feel him. If Ian turns and reaches out, he thinks he could grab a handful of Salty’s shirt or his hair and tug him in. Or he could push him back, hold him at arms’ length.

He does neither. Instead, they get to his car, Ian lets them both in, and then he drives them the half-hour or so to the new place in Birmingham.

Salty lets out a low whistle when the house comes into view. “That’s quite a house.”

“I hate it,” Ian blurts out. He kills the engine and tosses the keys haphazardly at the dashboard with a clunk.

“It’s… It’s not so bad,” Salty says, tilting his head. “I mean, I wouldn’t live there but I’m sure Tess and the kids’ll love it.”

“Stop talking about Tess.” It’s out before Ian can really think about what he’s saying. Ian studiously ignores the subtle lift of Salty’s eyebrows. Ignores the twitching muscle at Salty’s jawline that Ian can see under the fuzzy, overgrown, disgusting beard he’s let come in. 

Salty just says, softly, “Okay, Ian.” 

Ian cranks down the window and the summer heat hits him in a shimmering wave. It’s the dead of night and it still feels like a sauna outside. Ian reaches up and tugs at the collar of his shirt, while Salty just sits back and taps his fingers on his thigh. The night air is thick with the buzz of insects. Ian imagines them crawling over his skin and shudders. He gets out of the car and doesn’t stop to see if Salty’s following. Of course he’s following.

When Ian opens the door they’re hit with a blast of chilly, processed air. The alarm starts blinking—big, angry, red—before Ian flips open the keypad and disarms it. Salty closes the door behind them and Ian feels him there, at his back, just beyond his shoulder. Always standing too close, breath curling against the back of Ian’s neck. Ian wants to turn around and push him against the wall, tell him things have changed, he’s not that person anymore. Another part of Ian—a louder, more insistent part—wants to push Salty up against the wall and feel that beard scratch across his lips and cheeks and chin.

 _We don’t do that anymore_ , a Salty-echo says in the back of Ian’s mind. Ian flicks irritatedly at the lingering memory. 

“So,” Salty says, “nice place you got. It’s… it’s big.”

Ian glances over his shoulder. “It has three swimming pools. And a carriage house. Servants’ quarters, too. It’s kind of awful.”

“Why’d you buy it then,” Salty says, not quite phrasing it as a question. He slouches a bit, shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

Salty’s got a leather band circling his wrist; a tiny charm dangles and winks in the recessed light. Ian flicks his fingernail at it.

“What’s that for?” 

“It’s a… Ash got it for me,” he explains, twisting the bracelet on his wrist, and Ian withdraws his hand. “It’s got a passage of scripture on it.”

Ian resists rolling his eyes. He should get an award or something. An award in patience and understanding, maybe. “I should’ve guessed.”

Ian is weak. Ian is petty. The mention of Ashley sets his teeth on edge, curls his fingers into fists, makes him want to punch something until his knuckles split. It’s not a fair fight. Ashley comes first—Tess comes first—and they both know it. He’s got no right to be jealous and resentful, not when he knows the ground rules. Not when he was the one who put those rules in place to begin with.

“Ian,” Salty exhales, sounding injured, like someone punched him in the chest and all the air rushed out of his lungs like pinpricked balloons. “Ian, I—”

“You wanna beer?” Ian asks abruptly, turning his back on Salty, angling his body toward the kitchen.

“Um, sure,” comes the hesitant reply.

Ian goes to get them beers. He doesn’t really care if Salty follows anymore.

This was a bad idea. This was always a bad idea.

It’s a bruise, the two of them. A deep, lingering bruise Ian keeps poking and prodding at because he enjoys being miserable. He shouldn’t be so surprised it still hurts, or that it hasn’t yet faded away. 

Ian throws open the fridge and grabs a couple beers, not bothering to check the labels. A hand closes around one of Ian’s and slips the bottle away. Ian takes a deep breath, counts to three, turns around slowly.

Salty is looking at him with those big dumb moony eyes set in his big dumb fuzzy face. His hair is a big dumb wild tangle of curls, still damp from the post-game shower. Everything about him is big and dumb. 

“Thanks.” Salty gestures to the bottle, pantomimes opening it, and Ian grabs a bottle opener out of the drawer next to the sink. He flips it at Salty and he catches it one-handedly. He rips the cap off his beer and takes a long pull.

“Don’t mention it,” Ian mutters, opening his own beer and drinking until he’s sucking at nothing but air. 

When Ian finally sets the bottle down and lifts his head, Salty is looking at him with his head cocked to the side, a curious expression on his face. His eyebrows are knit and his eyes are soft, tender. There’s too much there: a question, maybe. Or an answer Ian isn’t ready to hear, to a question he can’t remember asking.

Ian feels like he’s been cut adrift and he’s just spinning into space now. He looks at Salty’s big, brown, too-soft eyes and then his big, gentle hands around his beer bottle. Ian wishes he were sharp enough, cruel enough to draw blood. He wishes Salty wasn’t so solid and upstanding, wishes he wasn’t so damn happy all the time. Wishes he could, for just a moment, bring Salty down to his level, down into the muck and mire.

“What,” Ian sneers. It comes out meaner than he’d intended it to, and he almost feels bad.

Salty flushes, a sudden burst of color spreading across his already ruddy cheeks. He looks down and shakes his head, curls bobbing. His hair’s thinning at the top of his head and a dozen cruel, petty barbs bite into Ian’s skin like thorns and brambles. 

“Nothing, man. I mean…” Salty picks and peels at a callus on the side of his thumb, exposing the raw red skin underneath. “Are you alright? Are you okay, Ian? You, ah… You don’t seem…” Salty hesitates, and his fingers still over his torn and bloodied thumb.

Ian ignores the dangling question and, instead, grabs a bottle of peroxide from a cupboard over the sink. He snatches a dishrag out of a drawer and waggles his fingers impatiently at Salty. He moves closer and Ian catches him by the hand.

“You dumbass,” Ian says, grasping Salty around the wrist, tugging him closer. “What’d you have to go and do that for?”

“I—what?” Salty mumbles.

Ian drags Salty over to the sink and pours peroxide over his thumb. “Randy’s not gonna be pleased,” he says. He's mostly just holding Salty’s damp hand in his now. 

“Ian,” Salty says. His voice sounds different now and it sets Ian on edge. 

Salty sounds like seven, eight, nine years ago. Like Texas and stolen nights in hotel rooms on the road. Stolen nights at Ian’s house with Tess in Arizona and Ashley in Florida.

This is wrong. This absolutely should not be happening. Not anymore.

Ian draws a hand down over Salty’s cheek, leaving streaks of wetness. Could be water or peroxide, he isn’t entirely sure. It beads in the coarse hairs of his beard like tiny diamonds. Then Salty shakes his head and Ian lets his hand fall away.

They stand there, unspeaking, chests heaving, breathing noisily. Ian thinks he should break the tense silence with an off-color joke, maybe, but nothing feels right. His mouth feels wrong, the way he shapes the words on his tongue and lips feels wrong.

Then Salty’s reaching for Ian, a determined look Ian’s only ever seen on the diamond burning in his eyes. Ian throws up his hands and knocks Salty’s arms away from him.

“What are you doing,” Ian says, not quite phrasing it like a question.

“Ian.” Salty sounds injured. Still injured. More injured. 

“We can’t.” The words catch in his throat, thick with the taste of regret. He swallows past them. “Tess and the kids… Ashley…”

“They’re not here, are they?” Salty reaches out and runs his thumb over the back of Ian’s hand before Ian can think to pull away. 

Ian feels something inside himself unlatch. Something vital. Something necessary to keep—keep everything from just spilling out onto the slick tiled floors. His guts, maybe, his intestines.

“Dammit, Salty,” Ian snarls, jerking his arm out of reach. “Don’t.”

Salty’s face flushes an even deeper shade of red and his eyes harden into tiny black diamonds. Ian hasn’t seen him this pissed since—well, since Ian broke things off the last time. Salty closes his bleeding hand into a fist and pounds it on the granite counter.

“Why’d you invite me back if you didn’t—”

“Salty, your hand, you idiot—” Ian speaks over him, sharply, reaching for his knotted fist.

Salty ignores him and bangs his fist on the counter again, harder this time. “You knew what you were doing. You know what you do to me.”

“Would you just stop. Stop talking. Just stop.” Ian snatches Salty’s fist in his and holds it still. “You’re gonna bust up your knuckles and then you can’t catch and then what good are you?”

“Not much good to anybody as it is,” Salty mutters, letting Ian pry his fingers open. Ian chuffs lightly as he rips a sheet of paper towel from a roll by the kitchen sink and wraps it around his thumb. “The coaches showed me pages and pages of these stats the other day. Catcher framing, catcher runs allowed, oh-strike percentage, all kinds of stuff they never told us about coming up. I’m near the bottom of the list in every category. I don’t even fucking know what this stuff is, Ian.”

Ian shrugs and hums noncommittally. “At least they don’t ask you to calculate your own WAR,” he teases.

Salty sighs and leans against Ian’s shoulder just a little bit. It’s nice, having Salty lean on him like this. His weight, the pressure is nice, and his hair is coarse and scratchy against Ian’s cheek. Ian is still holding his hand, has been holding his hand way longer than is necessary. But maybe if he took his hand away the bleeding would start up again, so he leaves his hand in place. 

He leans his temple against the top of Salty’s head.

“I reckon they’d release me if they weren’t paying me beans,” Salty muses.

“Nah,” Ian says. “There’s no one else besides you.”

Salty lifts his head and forces Ian to meet his eyes. They’re not hard or cold or nearly unrecognizable anymore. He looks more like himself, more like Ian remembers back from their Texas days. 

Ian, scrappy and undersized and always ready for a fight, covered head to toe in dirt most days. Salty, big and uncouth but gentle, always so gentle. They were kids, then, really. A couple of kids who just loved baseball and—

Ian can almost feel the damp, oppressive Texas summer heat on his skin just from looking at Salty. He remembers sweat trickling between his shoulder blades, the low rickety hum of a ceiling fan, the clink of ice cubes in a glass.

“Ian, you remember that one time, I think we were on the road in St. Louis maybe, and it was so dang hot. Neither of us could sleep and I—”

Ian does remember. “You went and threw all your briefs in the tub, then put ’em all in the freezer. Kept the rest of us up all night with your bitching about your frozen balls,” Ian says, laughing a little at the memory. 

“Nap callin’ me Blue Balls for the rest of the season,” Salty chimes in, his laughter a low, deep rumble in his chest.

Ian can’t help but grin. “We all did.”

Salty gasps and holds Ian at arm’s length, eyebrows shooting up in mock-surprise. “Even you?”

“Even me.”

“Traitor,” Salty says, mildly. 

Ian reaches out, rakes his fingers through Salty’s beard and curls a hand around the back of his neck. There’s a tug in his chest, the pull of an anchor as it sinks deep into unyielding sand. It feels inevitable, whatever this is.

He should push him away. 

Ian pulls him closer and just as their lips are about to meet, he forces himself to stop. He ducks his head and presses his forehead against Salty’s shoulder. He hears Salty’s breath, heavy and harsh and ragged in his ear.

Salty doesn’t say anything, but Ian can hear it—his name—flooding his mouth, ready to spill off the tip of his tongue. 

Ian stops, he stops and he thinks. He pictures Tess, the kids. Even thinks of Ashley and the girls. Thinks about all the ways this went wrong the last time. All the ways it still could.

This is happening, he thinks. His entire body tingles and thrums with energy, and he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, about to tip over the precipice. He can’t hear anything but his own fevered heartbeat and he can’t see anything but the black of Salty’s pupils. There’s nothing else in the world.

Ian pulls back so that he can see the devastated look in Salty’s eyes before he dives in to kiss him. Salty responds like Ian knew he would, skating his fingertips gently—almost reverently—down Ian’s bare arm before slipping his arm around his waist. 

He hates Salty a little bit for never being able to push him away, for never being able to say no. Salty always kisses him back, _always_. He always comes when called. Loyal to the end, like a pet. 

Ian shoves him back up against the counter without breaking the kiss, hands knotted in the front of his shirt. Salty’s belt buckle digs painfully into his gut and his hands grasp greedily at Ian’s back, pulling him close, trying to pull him closer still. 

Salty finally breaks the kiss and tilts his head back, panting like a dog. Ian rests his forehead against his shoulder, Salty’s stupid belt buckle still pinching into his skin.

Ian fumbles gracelessly for something to say, for words to fill the awkward spaces between them, as he jerks back and rearranges the ruffled hair at the back of his head. Salty’s watching him, watching the movements of his hands atop his head as his fingers sift through his hair.

“Shit,” Salty says, chest heaving. He rubs his thumb over the corner of his mouth. His lips are slick with spit and bitten red and raw. 

“You know, I should probably take you back to get your truck,” Ian is saying, turning his back on Salty and pretending to look for his keys even know he knows exactly where he left them. 

Salty closes a hand gently on Ian’s shoulder. “Maybe we should talk ab—”

Ian turns to glare at him and shrugs his hand away. “When’s talking ever helped either of us?”

“You know we can’t just—just leave shit unsaid. Not like Texas,” Salty says, his tone too gentle and kind.

Ian—not for the first time and probably not for the last—wishes Salty was meaner. It’d make things easier, at least. “What the fuck is there to talk about, Salty? You wanna talk? Then talk.”

“No point to it if it’s just me doin’ the talkin’,” Salty grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting and pushing out his bottom lip like a child. “You’ve gotta do some talkin’ too.”

Ian rips his hands through his hair and squinches his eyes shut. “Just tell me what you want me to say and I’ll say it,” he groans.

“You clearly ain’t happy, so… What would it take for you to be happy?” Salty asks quietly.

Ian opens his eyes and drops his hands. “Really?”

“Really,” Salty says.

“For you to drop the interrogation and just let me take you back to the park to get your damn truck,” Ian snaps.

Salty’s eyes are soft and gentle and too kind, kinder than Ian deserves. “That ain’t much of an answer.”

“Suck it up, buttercup. ’Cause it’s the only answer you’re getting. Let’s go.” Ian snaps his fingers out of Salty and leaves the kitchen, not stopping to check and see if he’s following.

Of course he’s following. He always does.

***

Ian skypes with Tess and the kids a few nights later, taking his iPad around the house to show them what their rooms look like, and he shows them the tennis court and the pool too. When the tour’s done and the kids have gone outside to play, because what the fuck do they care, Ian sits at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee—bitter and piping hot, just like he likes it—and Tess. Tess has a look on her face that Ian has a hard time deciphering, chalks it up to a shaky iPad connection.

“So,” Ian says, “what do you think?”

Tess still has that look on her face as she sits back and plays with the dangly bits of lace on her sleeve. “It’s…it’s big,” she says.

“It is definitely big.”

“And I like that the yard is big. Lot of space for the kids and the dogs,” Tess continues, but she still sounds like part of her is snagging on something and unable to wriggle off. “I just… It’s kind of ugly, isn’t it?”

Ian frowns. “It’s got charm.”

“Ian,” says Tess, laughing gently. It’s not a mean laugh, but he kind of wishes it was. “This house looks like one of those awful, tacky McMansions you see in rich people magazines.”

“We’re rich people,” Ian reminds her.

“We’re a couple regular kids from Tucson, Arizona,” Tess says. “The money doesn’t define us.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ian quips.

Tess rolls her eyes. “I did have my own career before I married you, you know,” she says, her tone just the slightest bit acidic.

“Of course I know that,” he says, ducking his head to tug at his hair. “I meant that, yes, we’re a couple of down-to-earth kids from Tucson, Arizona. Who also happen to be extravagantly well-off.”

“Point made.” Tess’ smile is pretty but sharp.

“Anyway,” Ian says, picking up the iPad and dumping his mug in the sink, “I’ve gotta go get my work in. See you in a week?”

“See you in a week,” Tess echoes. She pauses just a bit before adding hastily, “Love you, Ian.”

Ian can’t help but smile. Maybe absence does help the heart grow fonder. “Love you too.”

***

Ian goes about his business and studiously avoids Salty in the clubhouse whenever he tries to make eye contact or engage him in conversation. Eventually Salty just gives up trying, and Ian’s grateful. He can breathe a little easier. 

Eventually, though, guys start noticing. Start poking around, asking questions Ian doesn’t want to answer.

Verlander sidles up to Ian’s locker right before they’re set to go out for batting practice. It’s way too early in the morning to be dealing with this. 

“Somethin’ goin’ on with you and Salty?” Verlander asks. He smiles, but it’s one of his horsey smiles with all the teeth. Ian knows better than to trust that smile.

“What do you mean?” Ian asks, keeping his voice level. He picks up his glove and tugs at the leather laces. 

“Y’all’ve hardly said a word to each other in, like, a week,” Verlander says. Ian looks up, squints and frowns at him, looks back down at his glove. “If y’all are fightin’, I oughta know about it.”

“We’re not. Even if we were, it’s none of your business,” Ian says.

Verlander scoffs. “I’m good at solvin’ disputes. Just ask Iggy and Mac,” he says.

Ian rolls his eyes. He’s pretty sure Iggy and Mac came to the conclusion on their own that it didn’t look good for teammates to be fighting in the dugout. “You had nothing to do with that.”

“Didn’t I?” Verlander hikes his eyebrows at Ian, who half expects them to crawl right off his forehead. 

“Yeah, no.” Ian shoulders past Verlander and makes his way down the tunnel for the dugout. 

Salty’s right there by the entrance like he’d been waiting for Ian. For a brief, blinding moment, Ian wants to slug him, but he tamps down the violent urge. Maybe it wasn’t him Salty was lurking for in the dugout tunnel.

“Hey.” Salty grabs Ian’s arm before he can sprint past him. “We’re talkin’ whether you like it or not.”

“This really the right place for it?” Ian asks, jerking his arm out of Salty’s grip.

“Where else are we gonna do it, Ian?” Salty’s voice is hard, his words clipped, and Ian imagines them like little bullets aimed right for him.

“Fine,” Ian grunts, tugging Salty by the back of his jersey, pulling him into a dark, shadowy corner of the tunnel. He can hear the faint murmurs of the crowd through the thick slabs of concrete, and the muffled footsteps of their teammates surround them. “You wanna talk? Talk.”

“This ain’t gonna be how it was in Texas,” Salty says, crowding in on Ian, nudging him and nudging him deeper into the corner until his shoulder blades hit the wall. 

“I think it’s a little too late for that,” Ian points out, rather sensibly he thinks.

“Don’t do that.” Salty presses his lips together until they disappear in his bushy beard. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what,” Ian asks flatly, tipping his chin up. He knows he’s being an asshole just to be an asshole. He wonders if Salty will haul off and slug him, and kind of hopes he does.

“Your mind games,” Salty says through his teeth. Ian still can’t see his lips through his beard, which is strange. It’s in sore need of a trim. “I let you get away with that shit in Texas ’cause I loved you and I thought it was the only way to—to—I ain’t lettin’ you get away with it anymore.”

Ian sneers. “Jesus Christ, Salty, I—”

“You’re gonna let me finish,” he says. Ian shuts his mouth and bites off a snarky response. “I’m done bein’ caught danglin’ on your line. You want some other poor sucker you can bait and hook, go find someone else ’cause it ain’t gonna be me. Not anymore. If we’re gonna do this, things’re gonna change. If not… Well, then, I’m done.”

Ian stands there surrounded by the shadows and the silence and Salty and the low roar of the crowd. He doesn’t say anything. 

“You don’t got nothin’ to say?” Salty asks, sounding more perplexed than anything, all the anger draining out of him until he sags like a limp suit on a hanger.

Ian scrubs his hands over his face and shuts his eyes. A sharp sudden pressure pounds from inside his skull. 

“It—it wasn’t all bad in Texas, was it?” Ian asks, dropping his hands.

Salty stares at him. “What?”

“In Texas. There were some good moments, right? It wasn’t all, like, fucking torture for you to be with me, right?” Ian tries again.

“Did you not hear a single word of what I just said?” Salty asks.

“I just—” Ian falters, losing whatever last scrap of bravery he might have had. “Look, you don’t wanna do this anymore that’s fine by me. Tess and the kids are coming up in a week anyway, so maybe it’s for the best that it ends here. Now.”

Salty’s eyes pop open wide. “That’s not what I—”

“I’ve got better things to do than coddle you and your fucking neuroses,” Ian snaps, jabbing a finger into the front of Salty’s padded chest protector.

Ian’s skull throbs and the pain’s almost enough to drop him to his knees, but he refuses to go down. Not in front of Salty. He’s not going to let Salty win.

“Good lord, Ian.” Salty rubs a big paw over his eyes. “You only hear what you wanna hear, don’t you.”

“I heard you loud and clear. Things’re too tough for you, like they were in Texas. You can’t handle the heat, you never could.” Ian feels like a fighter out of his depth, just swinging wildly now in the hopes one of his punches lands and he draws blood. 

“All right,” Salty says gently, and he pushes away from Ian and leaves. 

Just like that.

 _All right_ , and then he’s gone.

Ian thinks he should feel relieved. 

He doesn’t know what he feels.

***

Ian collects Tess and the kids at airport baggage claim. No one even recognizes him here, which is nice. Back in Texas he was kind of a big deal, so he had to wear shades out in public all the time until Elvis started making fun of him and calling him Corey Haim until he stopped. Now, people just rush and push past him without a second glance. He’s just a regular guy picking up his wife and kids. He’s nobody special, nobody worth stopping for an autograph or a selfie. 

Tess hands him her carry-on bag in lieu of a greeting. “The flight was awful,” she says, hefting Jack like a sack of potatoes against her chest. Rian clings to the hem of her shirt and sucks on her thumb.

“Aren’t you a little old to be sucking on your thumb,” Ian says, plucking Rian’s hand away from her mouth and wrapping it up in his. It’s damp and sticky, but Ian doesn’t wipe his hand off on his shorts like he badly wants to. “You’re a big girl now, Ri.”

Tess rolls her eyes and grabs the handle of their luggage cart. “You haven’t been hitting,” she says conversationally as they make their way through baggage claim and outside. “Popping everything up.”

“Popping everything up,” Ian echoes, stooping to scoop Rian up in his arms. “I’ve been working on it with the coaches, but it’s not translating yet. I’ll get there.”

“Take him. My arm’s starting to go numb.” Tess dumps a sleeping Jack off on Ian and pushes the luggage cart in front of her. “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” she adds, as if in afterthought.

Ian looks at Tess over their kids’ heads and, for the first time in a while, thinks he believes it. “I will.”

***

After they put the kids down for their naps, Ian takes Tess on an extended tour of the house. They end the tour at the tennis courts, lean against the chainlink fence and drink beer until the sun goes down over the tops of the trees that surround the place. 

Ian’s feeling loose-limbed and loose-lipped, everything warm and flowy and good. He doesn’t even think about Salty. 

“The house isn’t as bad as it seemed over skype,” Tess says. She lets her empty beer bottle dangle from her fingers and she taps it against the links in the fence.

Ian looks up at the sky. The sun’s melting into the treetops. “It does kind of grow on you, a little bit.”

Tess lets the bottle drop from her hand and she reaches up, patting Ian on the cheek. “Just like you,” she teases.

“You saying you didn’t like me at first, but I grew on you?” Ian asks, unable to help a smile.

“I’m saying you’re big and pretentious,” Tess says, smiling back and letting her hand drop.

Ian laughs and leans into her shoulder. Tess is a solid, steady weight beside him.

They stay like that, lined up against the fence, surrounded by empty beer bottles, and watch the rose-tinted sky fade to velvety black.

***

The season kind of falls apart around the time J.D. comes back and Nick breaks his hand. It’s unfortunate because they were only two games out of first, but they follow up winning ten of eleven by dropping the next five and falling back in the standings. 

There’s not really even any silver lining either. Ian’s still not really hitting and Salty’s still not really talking to him much anymore. He just gives him injured puppy eyes in the dugout and clubhouse, which Ian gamely ignores.

The season fell apart last year too, but it feels different this year. Last year, it felt more like all the wheels falling off a bus, or whatever wheels falling off a bus is like. This year, they keep hanging around and hanging around, not necessarily good enough to wrest the division out of Cleveland’s grip but not bad enough to drop out of postseason contention altogether.

That petty part of Ian that he can’t quite shut up wishes they’d either just go on an improbable run, reel off thirteen straight wins like the Indians did in June, or just collapse and drop to the cellar. They’re a wounded animal that just won’t stay down, that doesn’t have the good sense to just die. 

Ian knows what that’s like. 

***

A couple weeks later, he’s helping Tess pack the kids up for their return trip to Dallas. He wishes he could just ask them to stay, even though he knows Tess would never say yes. And he knows it would be a hassle to enroll the kids in schools here just to pull them out once the season’s done and drag them back to Texas. It’s better this way, just cutting the limb off now.

All the good he’s been keeping inside starts seeping out. He starts snapping at the kids for getting too rambunctious in the house, tracking mud around, putting their dirty hands on the walls, until Tess finally tells him to just shut up. 

Then there’s nothing left. No good feelings, no Tess and Rian and Jack. It’s just Ian and this monstrosity he calls home.

Naturally, he goes looking for Salty. 

He’s getting to be more and more restless. They didn’t add anyone at the deadline and he’s reasonably sure they won’t make the postseason. If they go a second straight year on the outside looking in… Well, let’s just say things might not be looking good for Ian.

Ian pulls up in front of the condo Salty’s renting out for the year. It’s a decent complex, far enough from the city but not _too_ far. Salty’s place looks like the kind of place he’d live in, wreathe of animal bones—antlers, Ian thinks, as he opens his car door and rolls his eyes—hanging over a thatched welcome mat. 

Salty opens the door before Ian can lift the shiny brass knocker. Ian hefts a six-pack of beer against his hip and waits patiently.

Salty squints at him, like he doesn’t recognize Ian away from the ballpark anymore, which is something. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Brought a peace offering.” Ian thrusts the six-pack against Salty’s chest. 

“Uh, mind if I ask why?” he says, but he lets Ian in anyway and shuts the door behind them.

Ian snags one of the beers from the paperboard carrier. “Do I need a reason?”

“Generally speakin’, yeah.” Salty sounds dumbfounded.

Ian leans in, moves the beer out of the way. “I wanted to see you. Felt like we haven’t spoken in weeks,” he says, touching Salty’s arm with cold, wet fingers.

Salty pushes away from Ian and carries the beer into the kitchen. “I know.”

Ian follows after him, clutching his bottle in his hand to keep from doing anything too dumb. “And? You saying you don’t want me here?”

He watches as Salty opens a drawer and fumbles for a bottle opener, which he holds out to Ian. Ian accepts it.

“You’re the one who said you were done,” Salty points out, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He hits Ian with an assessing, level gaze.

“I was pissed off. You obviously knew that,” Ian says, as he chokes down the beer. “You know me. You know I’d cool off and come back to you.”

Salty sighs deeply. “I do. That ain’t necessarily a good thing, Ian,” he says softly.

Ian wants to look away—hell, part of him wants to leave now—but he meets Salty’s eyes. “Look, I said you were right.”

“You did?” Salty’s confusion is genuine, and Ian wonders if maybe he hadn’t actually said it out loud. 

“Yeah. You were right,” he says, going over to join Salty against the kitchen counter. He puts the beer down, and sets his hand down next to the bottle, inches away from Salty’s arm.

He’s not gonna touch him though. He’ll let Salty cross that bridge.

“You only come around when things go to shit,” Salty says, moving his arm away from Ian’s hand. “Tess and the kids come by, you don’t need me no more. They go back home to Dallas and here you are. I coulda set my watch to you.”

“That’s not it,” Ian says. But, honestly, he’s not sure anymore. Maybe Salty’s right. “I wouldn’t keep sticking around if I didn’t like you.”

“How can you like me? You didn’t like me in Texas.” Salty’s smile doesn’t match his words. “I was just…there. Let you do whatever you wanted. But you didn’t like me. At least, back then, you liked _yourself_.”

“I wouldn’t’ve fucked around with you if I hated you or something,” Ian snaps, growing hot with a sudden flush of righteous anger. 

“Didn’t say you hated me. Said you just didn’t like me. There’s a difference.” 

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Ian grabs his beer up and takes a long pull. 

“Took me a long time to figure it out.” Salty continues like Ian hadn’t just spoken. He sounds lost in the past and Ian pities him for a moment before remembering he’s mad at him. “Never had nothin’ to do with me.”

Ian grabs Salty’s arm and he tries to jerk away but Ian just holds him there. “You’re wrong. That wasn’t what it was like.”

“Don’t tell me I’m wrong, don’t tell me I don’t know my own heart, Ian. I know what I—”

Ian moves his hand from Salty’s arm to the front of his flannel shirt—who the fuck wears flannel in August—and tugs him close, slots their mouths together. He’s not used to kissing him with the beard. Actually, if he’s being honest he’s not really used to kissing Salty that much at all. He feels Salty’s hands land on his arms, then they grip him hard and Ian thinks he’s going to hold him there and keep kissing him, but he just pushes him away.

“What the heck are you doin’?” Salty stares at him, eyes wide. 

“What do you think?” Ian leans in, but Salty pushes him in the chest.

“You can’t just do that,” Salty says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “You can’t just walk into my place, give me beer and kiss me like it fixes everything.” 

Ian pushes down whatever he’s feeling right now—he isn’t sure anymore—and locks it in the imaginary black box in his heart. Every instinct in him is screaming to lash out, draw blood either figuratively or literally. 

“Why not?” Ian asks.

“Because— _because_ , Ian! Because it don’t work that way. Because you're a shitty person,” Salty fires back. “You’re a shitty person. When life’s goin’ good, when you’re happy you don’t have time for me. But when you’re bored or you’re angry or you're sad, when everything’s goin’ to shit, then you come back.”

“That’s all this is to you?” Ian asks.

Salty rubs his hands over his face and then sinks his fingers in his bushy beard and tugs. “It was more to me. But it always was. I never knew where I stood with you. I still don’t.”

Ian wants to tell him he’s wrong, that when things are going good he still has time for him. But the thing of it is, he can’t remember the last time he felt like things were going good. Having Tess and the kids with him for a couple weeks is the closest he’s been to _good_ , but they’re in Dallas now and he won’t see them again until October.

It wasn’t really good in Texas, either. Ian was maybe nicer then, but it still wasn’t great. Salty was too easy, let Ian walk all over him just to have the privilege of sucking Ian’s dick on the back of a team plane or in the dark corner of a hotel room. It was never nice or happy or whatever Salty wanted it to be.

“Look, Jarrod, I’m sorry,” Ian says, finally. He doesn’t know if that’s good enough. It probably isn’t. 

Salty nods slowly, shoulders sagging as all the fight goes out of him, like that word’s all he needed to hear. 

“I’m sorry too. I should’ve said somethin’ sooner. And then I should’ve been stronger about not doin’ nothin’ with you,” he says.

“So… Now what?” Ian asks, shifting his eyes to the package of beer on the counter. The condensation’s made the paperboard wet and pulpy. He tugs at it and a clump of it comes away in his hand.

“I dunno,” Salty says.

Ian sighs and squishes the pulp between his fingers. “Come back to the house with me,” he says, without really thinking about it or planning what he’s going to say next. 

Salty _hm_ s thoughtfully beside him. “Ian, you sure that’s a good idea?” 

“I just…need your help with something,” Ian says, finally meeting Salty’s eyes.

“Okay,” Salty says, the corner of his mouth ticking up in what’s almost a smile but not quite. “Anything for you.”

***

Ian grasps a corner of the patterned wallpaper in his hands and tugs and tugs until it starts coming away from the wall in a long strip. Salty peers over his shoulder and runs his palm over the different pattern underneath.

“They just papered over the wallpaper,” Salty says, sounding amused. 

“I guess they weren’t very creative.” Ian drops the patch of wallpaper and wipes his sweaty forehead on his arm. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Like I said. Anything.” Salty pats him on the back but he doesn’t move away. Ian can feel him standing behind him. 

“Tess doesn’t think it’s too bad, the house,” Ian says, “but it doesn’t really feel like—like it’s _ours_. You know?”

“Yeah,” Salty says. “Like it’s pretendin' to be somethin’ it’s not.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ian mutters, thinking back to when Tess compared him to the house. 

“Okay. But I know what you mean.”

Ian turns and looks over at him. Salty’s watching him with a small smile curving up the corners of his mouth. Like he’s actually happy to be here, to be helping. Like he’s happy to be with Ian just doing whatever. 

Ian can’t help himself, he reaches out and punches him gently in the chest. Salty doesn't so much as waver. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “Thanks for…for helping.”

Salty’s small smile morphs into a big, toothy grin. “Thanks for askin’ for my help.”

Ian turns back to the wall, to the patches of old, yellowed wallpaper showing though. There’s a wall somewhere underneath all this old tacky paper, Ian just knows there is. If he could just get to it. 

Salty steps up beside him and starts tearing at the corners of the wallpaper until there’s more of the old pattern showing than the newer one. Ian nods to himself and, as he hums faintly, he starts tearing it down too.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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